


it takes two to make an accident

by ajarofgoodthings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ANOTHER MARRIAGE LAW FIC, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, KIND OF SLOW BURN SLOW BURN IN SOME WAYS, Marriage Law Challenge, One Big Happy Weasley Family, Professor!Harry, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Society, Purebloods, Slow Burn, Veela, bad decisions influenced by insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 07:58:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12128004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajarofgoodthings/pseuds/ajarofgoodthings
Summary: 'The Matrimonio Liberis Decree is a non-compulsory Act brought forth by the Magical United Nations in the new Statute for International Magical Cooperation, as presented at the 2008 Summit. In the ten years since the end of the Second Wizarding War, the European Magical population has declined to its lowest point since the height of the 16th Century Witch Trials.'Everyone has their reasons; and everybody loves somebody eventually.





	it takes two to make an accident

“The Matrimonio Liberis Decree is a non-compulsory Act brought forth by the Magical United Nations in the new Statute for International Magical Cooperation, as presented at the 2008 Summit. In the ten years since the end of the Second Wizarding War, the European Magical population has declined to its lowest point since the height of the 16th Century Witch Trials.”

“Hard to believe, with us around.”

“Shut up, Ron.”

Gabrielle presses her lips together on a laugh, watching Ginny reach out to flick her brother in the back of the ear. Hermione, heavily pregnant and curled up next to her husband, flicks down the top of her paper.

“He’s got a point, Gin,” she says, leaning forward the best she can to look at her sister-in-law over Ron’s lap. Gabrielle can’t quite make out the words in the muttering that happens next to her at the same time, but glances to the side in time to see her sister putting an elbow into Bill’s ribs, breaking his laugh into a gasp with a smug smirk. She raises an eyebrow at Fleur, who shakes her head and smiles at her.

“Maybe, but d’you really want to give them the idea to repopulate the earth?” Ginny asks, and Ron turns a devilish grin on his wife.

Hermione arches an eyebrow at him, dropping definitively back to the cushions of the couch.

“No, Ronald.”

“Angie?”

“Don’t start,” Gabrielle leans forward, looking down the collection of sofas and seats they’d brought outside after dinner to look at George and Angelina, the former perched on the sofa arm and smirking down at his wife.

Not for the first time, she’s struck by how many couples she’s surrounded by. It’s a hazard of being semi-adopted by Molly Weasley - forced into Weasley family dinners, where everyone has a wedding ring and a baby on the way, if not one on their lap.

Gabrielle loves them. By virtue of her sister’s marriage, she’s become part of the family herself - but it’s isolating, too, and the strike of it is sharp and cold in her chest. She’s _lonely_ , sitting next to these people - they were all paired off by the time they were her age; maybe not married, but certainly with the person they were _going_ to marry. Which is an unrealistic standard, probably - an unhealthy one. She knows that things have gotten better; she knows Bill can sleep through a full moon now, knows that George can look in the mirror. Teddy is ten, and Harry smiles without hesitating when his hair shifts from an untidy jet black to a tidily-combed sandy brown. Hermione’s started rolling her sleeves up without thinking about it.

Gabrielle might not have _been_ there the same way as the rest of them - but she saw the damage, and she watched it heal, and she knows the damage is the reason they were all so codependent, it’s _why_ they’d all decided on their soulmates by twenty years old.

She hates that she’s jealous of them for fighting a war - but she _is_. She’s jealous of the automatic way they compensate for each other - how Harry comes up now amidst the back and forth bantering and leans over the couch to take a fed and happily dozing Lily from Ginny; of the red-haired baby girl tucked in the crook of Ron’s elbow, his other arm draped over Hermione’s shoulder to curve his hand into her shoulder, fingertips pressing in tandem along the muscle; of Percy with his youngest daughter’s sleeping head in his lap and wife dozing on his shoulder.

She _wants_ it.

“Up, auntie,” comes a demand from below her, and Gabrielle readjusts enough to bend forward and hook her hands under Louis’ arms, shifting her weight back and hauling him up into her lap. He scrambles to find his favourite spot - small for a two year old, he fits himself into the crook of her arm, head resting against her collarbone and fingers coming up to play with the beads and coloured thread his sisters had braided into her hair earlier.

He’s warm, solid against, her, and she brushes a hand over strawberry-blonde curls that are still baby-soft, looking up at Hermione.

“Read the rest,” she requests, quiet under the din of the Weasley clan, and Hermione looks up - hears her anyway, as she always does, and tilts her head, brow knitting.

She considers Gabrielle a moment too long, as she’s prone to do - watching, considering, _thinking_ far more than Gabrielle’s ever been comfortable with, and then clears her throat and shakes her paper out.

“In light of this decline, the Matrimonio Liberis Decree asks for volunteers. These volunteers will be entered into arranged marriages with partners found to be most magically compatible after a series of tests conducted by their respective Governments. Couples may be matched across country and continent, and, if consenting to their proposed matches, will be subject to the expectation of marriage and procreation within twelve months of the match,” Hermione finishes, folding the paper and dropping it into her lap. “The rest is about how to volunteer,” she gives, brown eyes dark and definitive on Gabrielle, who looks down, offering ring-laden fingers to her nephew.

“So the Ministry’s matchmaking now,” Ginny starts, derisive; “Bit presumptuous of them, isn’t it?”

“They’re not forcing anyone,” is Harry’s voice, reasoning, and Gabrielle glances up to find him perched on the back of the couch, expression turned in thought and baby in his arms. “And they’ve got a point; none of you have actually _seen_ how few students are at Hogwarts, now. There was a big influx after they recovered all the muggleborn records, but there were only thirty kids sorted this year,” he gives, pressing his index finger to the bridge of his glasses to push them up as he tilts his head to look down at his wife.

“You can’t _arrange_ love, Harry.”

“Our parents’ was,” Fleur offers, hand drifting to catch over Gabrielle’s knee. “The custom is more common in French Purebloods, now, than the English.”

“‘Cept, Daph and Theo were arranged,” Bill offers next to her, head turning to look at his wife and Gabrielle both. Gabrielle nods, silent, as Fleur offers out-loud confirmation.

“‘Daph’? ‘Theo’?”

“Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott,” Hermione says, answering Percy’s confused echo.

“Bill knows ‘Daph’ from the Greyback’s Grumpies Anonymous Meetings,” George goes on, and Angelina’s backhand to his stomach is punctuated perfectly by Ginny’s loud scolding.

“Ha-ha, Georgie,” Bill gives, shaking his head. “Daphne and Astoria’s mum is a cousin of Apolline’s,” he explains, gesturing to Fleur, and Harry makes an exasperated choke of a noise.

“Are _all_ of you related?”

“Yes,” Gabrielle says, and Ginny snorts, smirking at her. “That might be part of the magical compatibility. Bloodlines,” she goes on, and Hermione starts nodding, shifting to sit forwards again and look up at Harry.

“Gab’s right. Not only is the rate of procreation amongst the magical population declining, period, but there’s a higher rate of the production of Squibs amongst those who _do_ have kids. Too much inbreeding.”

“What do you know about that? That’s classified,” Percy breaks in, tone breaking a little high and sharp, and Ron laughs over his brother’s panic.

“She knows everything. Accept it.”

“More genetic variation among breeding pairs leads to stronger offspring,” Hermione goes on, a hand brushing over her stomach. “Essentially - between Rosie and the next, Ron and I are going to be living in an obstacle course of accidental magic for the next decade or so,” Ron laughs again, smile wicked and proud, curving his hand over his wife’s against the swell of her stomach.

“Wouldn’t change a thing,” he says, shifting his grip on Rose to duck in and kiss her, and there’s another cold burst in Gabrielle’s chest. She looks down at Louis again, whose grip has fallen loose on her fingers and forehead has tilted into her neck, so his breath is warm and slow on her skin. She tilts her head to press her cheek to the top of his head, free hand moving to tuck fingers under his legs and tug him a little closer to her body.

There’s a shattering of noise, then - the sound of wood splintering and a shout, and the whole group shifts to look at the Burrow, one the other side of which a burst of smoke is rising.

“Theodore Remus Lupin!” Gabrielle hears Molly yell, and grimaces, predicting the next, _much_ louder, “VICTOIRE GABRIELLE WEASLEY!”

“Merlin,” Ron mutters, just as Dominique turns the corner at top speed, heading directly for Harry with Percy and Audrey’s eldest, Molly, at her heels.

“Uncle Harry -” she breaks off, wincing at another burst of noise, “James and Albie are awake,” she offers, and Gabrielle does her best not to smile as Fleur sighs next to her, hanging her head.

“So are Freddie and Rox,” Molly gives, considerably more apologetic, to George and Angelina, and then offers her best smile to her own parents, trying to shush a fussing Lucy. “Sorry,”

“William, that is your daughter,” Fleur says, low to her husband, who scoffs even as he gets up.

“ _My_ daughter. S’not the me in her that’s built her a tiny army of miscreants,” he says, but he’s smiling, and Fleur rolls her eyes and leans back into the couch.

“ _Your_ daughter. This one is mine,” she confirms, pointing at Louis, who hasn’t even stirred. “And Dom - were you distracting Grandma?” She asks, and Dominique grins at her, proud and offering a salute.

“I’m the best at it,” she says, coming around the couch to take her father’s empty seat, tucking herself into Fleur’s side. “Because I’m the cutest.”

“She’s both of yours,” Ginny decides aloud, pointing between them both and then pressing herself up. “But don’t count Teddy a part of Vic’s army. He’s an entirely independent miscreant.”

“I’ve got it, Gin -”

“Nope. I _want_ it.” Ginny says, gesturing for Harry to sit back down, Lily whimpering in his arms. Harry sighs, shaking his head.

“You’re just going to commend him.”

“It sounded like an impressive explosion,” Ginny confirms, shrugging and following her eldest brother out from the collection of couches to the distant sound of Molly Weasley’s Lecture Voice, “You can collect the boys, though,” she tosses over her shoulder as George gets up to join them, and there’s a murmuring of agreement amongst the other adults.

“It _is_ after bedtime,” Audrey says, helping shift a not-quite-awake Lucy so Percy can pick her up.

“We should leave as well, before you break Grandma,” Fleur gives to Dominique, fingers carding through flame-thick hair.

“I’ve gotta ask, though,” Ron starts, leaning forward to plant his elbows against his knees. “Where was Grandpa?”

“Showing Molls his spark plugs,” Dominique says, giving up her cousin without a second thought. Molly, tucked to her mother’s side, winces.

“ _Dom -_ ”

“Molly!”

“Percy, you’re not honestly surprised, are you?” Audrey asks, smirking at her husband, bearing an expression of comical horror.

“‘Ave you got _le petit_?” Fleur asks, quiet under the ensuing back and forth, and Gabrielle glances at the paper still sitting on Hermione’s lap before shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve rehearsal first thing, I’m going to go home,” she offers, and Fleur narrows her eyes at her.

“Est ce que ça va?”

“I’m fine,” Gabrielle gives back, and rolls her eyes when Fleur arches an eyebrow. “Je suis juste fatigué .Hermione can set up a Portkey for me,” she goes on, looking past her sister to the woman in question, who’s looked up from a barely-stirring Rose at the sound of her name. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Hermione says, nodding. Fleur glances between them both, mouth still turned down in disbelief, before giving a single-shouldered shrug as she stands up.

“‘And him over, then,” she says, putting her hands out for her son, and Gabrielle shifts both their weights forward to press her sleeping nephew up into Fleur’s arms, then gets up.

Immediately, a small body presses itself to her legs. “‘Night, Auntie Gabby!” Dominique says, sweet, but muffled with her face pressed against Gabrielle’s thigh.

“Darling, Fais de beaux rêves,” Gabrielle ducks down to hug her niece, pressing a kiss to her cheek before she stands up, pushing to her toes to do the same to her sister, whose free arm catches around Gabrielle’s waist in a loose hug. “I’ll see you on Saturday afternoon for tea, yes?” She confirms as she pulls back, met once more by Fleur’s disbelieving expression, pale blue eyes scanning her face. Gabrielle grimaces. “Arrêtez. Je vais bien _._ I love you. Go,” she urges, pressing her hand light against the small of her sister’s back. She looks at her a moment longer before conceding, offering a hand out to her daughter to do the rounds of their goodbyes as the group breaks up. “Give Vic my love,” Gabrielle adds as a hand catches her elbow, and Hermione’s next to her, expression unsurprisingly _just_ as disbelieving as Fleur’s had been.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” She asks, leading them out of the collection of couches and towards the shed, to the junk pile the Weasleys keep for Portkeys.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Gabrielle gives, trying not to let the frustration locking in the back of her jaw colour her tone.

“You usually ask me to set up a Portkey before dinner. Days before. This feels like a snap decision,” Hermione’s arms cross her chest as she turns to her, tilting her head to the side. “You’re not much one for snap decisions.”

Gabrielle rolls her eyes, shaking her head and ignoring the comment in favour of picking out an old leather boot. “I spent all day rehearsing and there’s more tomorrow. I love them, but Dom and Vic are always in my bed at night, and Dominique _kicks,_ ” she explains, offering the boot to Hermione. “Thank you for the concern, and the Portkey. I _am_ okay.”

Hermione doesn’t say anything, setting the boot on the ground and pulling her wand from her pocket. She tugs back her sleeve, checking her watch and then muttering an incantation over the boot. It takes on a purple light, glowing bright a moment in the half-dark of the setting sun.

“You’ve got three minutes,” she says, pressing her wand back into her pocket. “You also don’t have rehearsal tomorrow,” she goes on without looking at Gabrielle, pulling a piece of folded paper from her other pocket and offering it to her. “I know you’re a French citizen, but I helped Kingsley write the proposal for the Decree. Don’t tell Percy,” she explains as Gabrielle takes the paper, unfolding it to find the article on the Marriage Law.

“Hermione -”

“I have an open appointment slot tomorrow after lunch; can we talk? I’m not going to judge, I just want to make sure you understand the details before you do anything,” she arches an eyebrow at Gabrielle, who considers her a moment, eyes flicking between the article and Hermione’s face - which, true to her word, _isn’t_ judging. It’s just - concerned, maybe. Gabrielle sighs.

“How did you know I didn’t have rehearsal?”

“Tomorrow’s a Monday. The theatre’s dark.”

Gabrielle considers her a moment, pursing her lips. “How do you know that and Fleur doesn’t?” She asks, and Hermione shrugs, half-smiling.

“You’ve met your nieces, right? I’m surprised Fleur _ever_ knows what day it is,” she offers, and Gabrielle breaks into her own smile, nodding.

“You have a point.”

The boot starts to glow again; light and barely visible, and Hermione reaches out to catch fingers over Gabrielle’s wrist. “Tomorrow. One o’clock. Please?”

The glow gets brighter, and Gabrielle hesitates, curling the paper in her hands and staring at Hermione’s fingers on her wrist.

Hermione’s always been warm, kind, if a little reserved - but Gabrielle knows she’s reserved herself, and is closer to Ginny and Angelina only by virtue of their separate determinations to force their friendship on her. Hermione’s always been a little more awkward about things, but there’s nothing but sincerity in her face as she looks at Gabrielle.

“So long as you don’t tell anyone. Especially Fleur - and Gin,” Gabrielle gives, and Hermione smiles at her, understanding curved into her mouth.

“Of course,” she says, and Gabrielle nods, turning her hand over in Hermione’s to grip her fingers a moment.

“Okay. Tomorrow, at one,” she agrees, and the girl’s smile breaks into a grin before she ducks in for a hug - quick, and forcibly distant because of her belly, but genuine nonetheless. Gabrielle hugs her back, and then the other is stepping away, and she grabs the boot just as it catches neon-bright.

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i've been building a massive pureblood family tree including pinterest boards because that's how i live my life for the last year, to create 'The Grey Area' universe. This will probably, definitely be the lightest fic to come out of that world and isn't intrinsically tied to it, but if anyone would like background info (family trees, the pinterest boards, just wanna yell about fuckin pureblood culture) feel free to let me know because i would love to share!!
> 
> feedback always appreciated and welcome. Xx.


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